All I see out the window is another     skyscraper.
On this floor the ninety-fourth, I stay near my desk.
Smoke blackens the office space like a widow’s wreath.

Remaining calm as a glacial lake in August
finding long tables set up for me and the others
I sit on a folding chair, greet my neighbors on either side. 
They both have big hairdos
used Christmas paper just unwrapped  

We all take out our knitting needles—either neighbor
can help me with my work, both leaning toward me 
to demonstrate, their knitting needles clicking. 

A light chatter enfolds us . . . 
we’re creating Afghans, grey and beige lap blankets.
Settling in for a long morning of knitting
we’re strangely safe, unconcerned like a cocoon in winter. 
While we are here nothing else matters.